


Alone Together

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Daemons, BDSM, Consent occurs in retrospect, Daemon Touching, Dom!Jon, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Not exactly but it's a spin on that trope, Sub!Elias, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 22:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Peter leaves Elias in a semi-catatonic state, it's up to Jon to drag him out of it.





	Alone Together

**Author's Note:**

> Kyros and lontradiction came up with Sophia and Grace and Ira's name; I contributed Ira's species. Thanks to both of them, as well as Zomb, teawood, Teakwood, and Amber for listening to me shriek about my fics as usual.
> 
> I spent way too long looking up bird mating for this fic.

            Jon’s been awake for all of a week, feeling ill and strange and as if he doesn’t fit into his own body, when Martin shows up at his door, looking exhausted, frustrated, and half out of his head with worry. Grace is twining around his feet, uttering short yipping barks at sporadic intervals. “Sorry to bother you,” he says, looking at Sophia, who hasn’t moved from Jon’s shoulder since he woke and she rematerialized. “I just—I didn’t know who else to come to? Uh…it’s Elias.”

            Pressing a finger to his forehead, Jon sighs. “What does he want _now_?”   Jon’s feelings about Elias are a mixed-up, unpleasant tumult currently. He’s not quite certain how their last interview—per Elias’s release from jail, following a trial in which _of course_ none of the evidence was admissible—ended with Jon on the floor, sucking Elias off. Not that it hasn’t happened before, admittedly; Jon has irritatingly little self-control around Elias and significantly too much desire to please, not to mention Elias is all too eager to indulge Jon’s curiosity over new experiences. Sometimes, Jon thinks, his life gets really surreal.

            But Martin looks really worried. “He had an interview with Peter Lukas, and, and—Peter came out and _winked_ at me and said something about extracting payment for services rendered, and when I went to check on him—Elias isn’t responding to anything. He’s just not—I got him home to his flat, but I couldn’t make him respond to me or—I don’t think he even knew I was _there_.”

            Jon’s stomach twists unpleasantly. “I’ll be right there,” he says. “Thanks, Martin.” He reaches out awkwardly and squeezes Martin’s hand. Wishes he could kiss him, but it’s not the time. If Martin thinks Elias will respond better to him—well, there’s that inside Jon that isn’t inside Martin. Uncomfortable as it makes him sometimes, he _is_ the Archivist. More so now than he has ever been.

            They take a taxi to Elias’s flat. Martin offers to stay and help, but Jon shakes his head and says he’ll call him if necessary. He suspects Elias would rather it was just one person, if possible, trying to get him out of whatever mess he’s gotten himself into.

            Elias is kneeling in the living room of his flat with Ira. He doesn’t look up when Jon enters. Jon can barely even hear him breathing.

            “Elias, don’t do this,” Jon says helplessly. Elias’s head doesn’t even turn towards him, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “ _Elias_. Ira?” The little owl, tucked between Elias’s palms, doesn’t move, either. “Dammit.” Jon wants to kill Peter; he wants to take him apart slowly, limb from limb. Not much use a response, that.

            “Try hitting him?” Sofia suggests.

            “Do you really think—” Jon cuts himself off. “Fine. It’s worth a shot.”

            The blow isn’t particularly hard, though the sound of Jon’s palm on Elias’s cheek is surprisingly loud, and Elias doesn’t move, but Ira blinks, a long, slow blink, his head twitching ever-so-slightly.

            “Try again,” Sophia tells him; Jon is already moving to do so. The second blow is harder than the first, and Elias’s head rocks slightly to the side.

            “ _What is your name_?” Jon demands, and Elias’s lips move as if he’s trying to answer; no sound comes out. Ira makes a tiny, soft peeping noise. Sophia tilts her head to the side, spreads her wide wings, and hops off of Jon’s shoulder to approach. “Sophia? What are you do—” Jon gasps as she sticks out a claw and bats Ira out of Elias’s hands. Neither of them react properly. It’s Elias, this time, who gives a long, slow blink. Ira’s head swivels slightly towards Sophia.

            “Right,” Jon says. “Right, okay.” He’s trembling, and he knows he can’t be, not for this. “I swear,” he says. “If I find out you did this on purpose—” But he knows Elias didn’t, the knowledge percolating in almost before he opens the third eye that has been only tentatively closed since he reawakened.

            It’s—a lot. The river of knowledge running past him threatens to drag him away in its relentless current, and all he wants to do is follow it down, but Sophia nips at the third knuckle of his index finger, and Jon shudders and swallows and lets go a little, letting the pain hold him to the bank of the metaphorical river as he reaches out for what he needs.

            His head hurts, and his skin feels oddly full when he turns back to Elias, who is still kneeling on the floor. “Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice loud, awash with compulsion.

            It’s not Elias who answers, but Ira, looking up from where Sophia threw him. “Yes,” he says.

            “Then will you do as I say?” Jon twists the compulsion, hard enough that Elias gives a breathy gasp, but it’s still the little owl who answers, voice high and piping.

            “Yes, _yes_. Please.”

            Jon looks quickly down to Sophia, who clacks her beak. “I think we’ve got to,” she says quietly. “I mean, we could try to ask someone else—he might respond to Martin? But…”

            “Yeah,” Jon agrees, quietly, and he pushes down the question of when Elias became someone he would do this for, and he takes a deep breath, and lets more eyes shudder open, inside and out. Sophia bends down across Ira, pinning him to the floor with one large claw, and Elias finally makes a noise, a strangled, choking, desperate noise. “Hold still,” Jon (the Archivist) tells him, and he reaches out and takes Elias’s chin, tipping it up so he can see those dazed grey eyes more clearly. “You are not his,” he says, and it’s so much; he can feel Sophia’s beak preening through the delicate soft feathers at Ira’s breast.

            He rubs his thumb across Elias’s lower lip, and Elias blinks again, mouth moving slightly. “Jon,” he chokes suddenly. “Jon—”

            “Did I say you could speak?” The Archivist’s voice is cold; Sophia pauses for an instant in her preening, and Ira goes limp, wings splayed across the floor, shocky. Elias shakes his head, minutely, blinking again, a little more rapidly. “Good,” the Archivist (Jon) tells him, running a hand through his hair and feeling the curls run through his fingers, sweat-sticky and matted enough that he barely has to try to twist his hand. Elias’s face tries to respond, but it can’t quite seem to manage the necessary expression. “It’s all right,” the Archivist tells him. “I’ll take care of you. _Do you believe me_?”

            A flicker of pain crosses Elias’s face; his mouth trembles and sweat beads on his forehead; Ira gives a high, desperate cooing noise. Then, finally, Elias manages a wrenching nod, the shudder traveling all the way down his spine.

            “Very good,” Jon tells him, rubbing what he hopes is a soothing hand across Elias’s head. Sophia makes a soft, throat noise as she slides her beak across Ira’s vulnerable underside. For a moment, they lose themselves in the twin sensations of soft hair and softer feathers. Then the raven looks up at Jon with the eyes of the Archivist and says, “He needs more. You know that.”

            Yes, Jon knows that. They all do. Elias is waiting patiently, numb with something much more profound than cold, his brain looping through all its pathways in an attempt to find a connection to another person, but those pathways have been destabilized, rendered thin and brittle by the Lonely’s touch. The Archivist experiences anger, a burning sensation in temples and chest, and catalogues it carefully. _Mine_ , says something deep in his core, and he doesn’t know if that feeling is Jon or the Archivist or a perfect harmony.

            He reaches out and grabs Elias’s tie. Although Jon is not particularly strong, Elias is not a large man, and it requires very little in the way of his help for Jon to hoist him to his feet and manhandle him towards the couch in the corner of the room. He pushes Elias down on it, his fingers jumping slightly as Sophia beats her wings, clacking her beak in Ira’s.

            “Open your mouth.” Elias obeys, and Jon/the Archivist pushes his fingers inside roughly. “Suck.”

            This time, the response is immediate. Elias takes the fingers so far into his mouth Jon thinks he’s going to choke, but he doesn’t. He sucks hard, singleminded; between the warm wetness of his mouth and the soft cries Ira is giving, twitching beneath Sophia’s beak, Jon is finally becoming aroused. Useful, considering.

            “Uh—good,” Jon says. “You’re doing well, very well.” He realizes he’s started absently thrusting against Elias’s shin, and Elias shifts beneath him, just a little, to give him a better angle. Jon splays his fingers outward, lets Elias tongue over the spot in between, and tries not to think too hard about how the hell he ended up here. It doesn’t matter; all that matters is that he’s not losing Elias. He’s not. He won’t.

            Sophia splays a claw across Ira, holding him down, twists her head round and twitches his tail aside. He gives a single, surprised cheep and then lies still as Sophia pauses, clacking her beak at him. “We’ll take care of you,” she says, and Ira gives a long, slow blink, and says, “Yes, of course.”

            “Trousers off,” the Archivist says, calm and cool, and Elias makes a soft, whining sound in his throat, but his hands are steady as he unbuttons his trousers and slides them off, then starts to roll towards the side, but the Archivist arrests him with a hand on his chest. “Did I tell you do anything else?” Shudder. Shake of the head. Elias goes limp. “Hold still.”

            There’s lubricant in Elias’s desk. Jon fetches it, feeling slightly awkward, cheeks burning at the feeling of Elias’s silent gaze following him. But that feeling, awkward as it is, is reassuring. This is working. This will work.

            He returns and kneels on the couch, pulling Elias’s legs apart. Elias’s gaze is still pinned on him, but he doesn’t resist as Jon (the Archivist) pushes the lubricant into his hand and says, succinctly, “Prepare yourself.”

            It takes a moment, as if it’s still difficult for Elias to move his limbs, but he manages to open the container, coat the fingers of his left hand and reach downwards. There’s a clumsy air to it, as if the instructions from his brain are taking a long time to reach his hand and fingers. “Two fingers,” the Archivist instructs him relentlessly, and Elias blinks twice, rapidly, but complies, grimacing slightly at what must sting quite a bit.

            His movements are still jerky and clumsy but growing more fluid. The Archivist (Jon?) puts a hand back into the center of his chest and presses down slightly, mirroring the position Sophia has been holding Ira in for the past few minutes, waiting. He gives Elias what he judges to be sufficient time—less than five minutes, more than three—and then he takes Elias’s wrist, jerks the fingers out of him, and pins the wrist to the couch. “Don’t move your hands, but you may speak.”

            Elias gives another rough, heaving gasp, and twists his head suddenly to the side. The Archivist reaches down, takes his chin, and jerks him back up. “Look at me,” he commands, quiet and cold; Elias shudders again and finally manages a hoarse, “Yes.”

            The Archivist aligns himself carefully; he feels the raven’s wings beating as she does the same. Precision is important; gentleness is not. It takes only a single fluid motion for him to hilt himself inside Elias at the same moment that the raven presses her hole against Ira’s, and he experiences

_heat_

_slick_

_the frantic beating of Ira’s wings in time with the raven’s_

_the clenching of Elias’s fists_

_the tension of Elias’s inner thighs against Jon’s outer ones_

            and takes a moment to breathe and catalogue it, before he says, “ _How does it feel_?” and begins to thrust as Elias howls.           

            “It feels—like a fire,” Elias manages, eyes open, fists still clenched against the couch. “Like a fire in midwinter. Like I was frozen to the point of numbness and suddenly pushed into hot water.” He chokes, and the Archivist sees his teeth dig into his bottom lip. “It also feels as if I am—in—in my place. Again. As if I could not see it, and then I was—returned, so quickly it is almost—too much.”

            “Good,” the Archivist tells him, hips still moving quickly; Jon’s head is spinning with the heat and roughness of the sex. “You let the Lonely touch you, Elias. You should not have done that.”

            “I’m sorry,” Elias gasps, blinking rapid and desperate but holding the same position as Jon fucks him. Ira is speaking the words with him, voice breathy and dazed. “I know it isn’t enough—I know I’m worthless—will never be enough—”

            “Bring yourself off with your right hand.”

            Elias chokes again and reaches up; it takes him only three strokes before he’s coming all across his stomach and chest. A few drops spatter across Jon’s stomach and upper thighs as well.

            “Who do you belong to?” Jon/the Archivist demands, and Elias shudders, limp and drained.

            “You,” he says hoarsely. “Always you.”

            The Archivist (Jon?) folds himself down, draping himself over Elias’s heaving chest, and the raven gathers Ira up, swallowing him beneath one huge wing. The Archivist, still deep inside Elias, presses cold lips to his forehead. “I forgive you,” he breathes, and Elias sobs. His walls twitch hotly around Jon, who groans as the climax is pulled out of him, almost painful, spilling himself inside Elias as his mind whites out.

            When he blinks again, his face is on Elias’s chest, and his eyes are shut, most of them. “Uh,” he says, looking up to see that Elias is smiling, something oddly halfway between a smirk and a tender look, and running a careful hand down Sophia’s back. Tiny claws pick through Jon’s hair, and it’s his turn to shudder. “I take it you’re feeling better?” he says, and if his voice comes out quiet and far away, well, that’s probably to be expected.

            “Thank you, Jon,” Elias says, taking one long, shuddering breath and then another. “That was—somewhat beyond the bounds of your employment contract.”

            Jon snorts. “Christ,” he says, and then realized that he’s still half _inside_ Elias, and jerks back quickly. For some reason, he’s shaking, hands trembling in front of his face.

            “Wait,” Elias says, quietly. He sits up and puts a cautious hand around Jon’s naked shoulders. “May I?”

            It’s hard to nod, but Jon does. “I—” he stalls out. He wants to apologize, but there’s nothing to apologize for, is there?

            “I rather think I ought to be apologizing to you,” Elias tells him, the dryness in his tone belied by the way Ira is preening Jon. “That was exactly what I needed, but I’m not so sure it was—”

            “It was fine,” Jon interrupts, though he’s still shaking. “You needed it. Just—you know, maybe don’t let Peter Lukas near you again? At least not without giving me a heads’ up? I’d prefer to be able to at least discuss this kind of thing beforehand.”

            “Jealous, Jon?” But Elias leans forward and kisses Jon’s mouth. “You are beautiful,” he says, as he pulls back. “Whatever guise you happen to be in.”

            “I’m not much of a god, you know,” Jon replies, attempting something like humor. “Or an avatar of one, I suppose. I’ve never particularly wanted worship.”

            “Such a shame. You’re very easy to worship.”

            Jon growls in irritation, and wishes that Sophia wouldn’t tug at Elias’s ear so affectionately. In his hair, Ira giggles, and scratches lightly at his scalp.

            “Don’t worry, Jon, you’ll get there,” Elias tells him.

            “I don’t _want_ to,” Jon complains, plaintive, but he sighs. “Choices, I know.” He shoves tiredly at Elias’s shoulder. “Thanks. For coming back.”

            “Thank you for bringing me back. I assure you, I will be sending Peter a sternly-worded letter.”

            That pulls another tired laugh out of Jon. He’s starting to feel better—more balanced, more the usual mix of Jon-and-Archivist, not having to push himself further than he’s ready for anymore, not having to pull back so far he feels blind and naked. “I should call Martin,” he says, tiredly. “He was worried about you.”           

            “And he’ll be better at this than I am,” Elias agrees, affably. “Probably a good idea all round.” Once again, Jon is reminded that his life is surreal, but at least it’s settling down towards normal surreal.

            “I think you should make us dinner,” he tells Elias, folding his arms. “We’ve both expended quite a bit of energy digging you out of your latest hole.”

            The laugh Elias gives is utterly delighted. “I shall be happy to,” he says. “Go on and call Martin, then, and I’ll see what I have in the kitchen.”


End file.
